


Me and You (Sitting in a Hunter's Room)

by allyoop_1



Series: We're Throwing Stones at a Glass Moon [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Derek and Stiles Being Idiots, Hurt Derek, Hurt Stiles, Kidnapped Derek, Kidnapped Stiles, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-02 20:59:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2825921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allyoop_1/pseuds/allyoop_1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Derek growled again, but then lowered his eyes. “I’m not healing.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Stiles was about to snark back that he’d noticed, but then recognized the look Derek was leveling at the ground. It was helplessness. Derek was used to being the alpha, the one who took care of everyone else. It was probably costing him a lot not to be able to spring up and take charge. Though he was probably fearful of what was inhibiting his healing, he was probably more fearful that he wouldn’t be able to take care of his pack (and Stiles was pack, Derek had made sure he knew that long ago). Derek was completely at the mercy of Stiles, and Stiles didn’t begrudge the man for being a little afraid of that.</i>
</p><p>Or, the one where Stiles saves the day (and Derek) and learns a little something about himself in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wolfy_P_Smith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfy_P_Smith/gifts).



Stiles did not sign up for this shit.  
  
Sprinting through the underbrush of the Beacon Hills preserve at ass o’clock in the morning with God knows how many blood thirsty hunters hot on his trail had not exactly put him in a good mood. It’s not like he wasn’t used to this kind of action; running from would be assailants and being mauled by unforgiving foliage had kind of become his primary after school activity (if only he could put that on his college applications). But honestly, he thought as another tree turned pimp bitch-slapped him, he was getting a little tired of risking his life for his friends only to be forgotten when the real shit went down. It’s not like they weren’t good friends- Scott was the best when he wasn’t mooning over Allison (ha mooning, get it?) and the pack had actually started coming together as a cohesive group instead of the loose coalition it had been in the past- but every time a threat appeared in town, Stiles was left to fend for himself as the others sought out those closest to them: Scott and Allison, Boyd and Erica and Isaac, Lydia and Jackson and Danny. This left Stiles and Derek by themselves more often than not.  
  
Stiles, out of boredom and a desperate need for interaction, had taken to visiting the loft most days after school. Derek had put up a decent fight in the beginning, but soon the wolf stopped looking surprised to see Stiles sprawled out across his couch doing homework or watching horrible reality TV. He even started to join him occasionally. What started as stilted small talk and vaguely disguised threats became arguments over which season of Housewives was the best and which supernatural creature would be the worst to meet in a dark alley (Stiles maintained that it was the wendigo- they’re cannibals, man). They weren’t friends, exactly, but they could count on each other when everything fell apart, and that’s what mattered.  
  
Which led to Stiles’ present dash through the woods. Instead of banding together like the pack they were supposed to be, the teenagers had scattered once the news of the new batch of hunters reached town. Scott had left in the middle of a game of Super Smash Bros, leaving Stiles’ character Peach (no Scott, she is _not_ girly, she’s a fry pan wielding badass!) to die a merciless death at the hands of some kid from Belgium. He’d stewed for days, refusing to be the one to break their silence and try to contact Scott, and had instead decided to seek Derek out to get some answers on the new threat. This proved to be a bad idea when his jeep’s tires were shot out on his way to the old Hale house and he’d been chased off into the woods by the hunters.  
  
Which, Stiles realized belatedly, he should have been paying more attention to as he tripped over an exposed root and went flying into a small, moon-lit clearing. Rising to his feet, he noted that he was surrounded and shifted to a fighter’s stance while surreptitiously drawing his hidden blade into his palm. Before he even had a chance to make a move, however, he felt a sharp sting in his neck and immediately began to feel drowsy. As the tranquilizer began to spread through his bloodstream, he only had time to breathe out “Not fair” before he succumbed to the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! This is kind of my first fanfic, so any kind of feedback would be awesome! I'm going to try to put up chapters as fast as I can, so bear with me. Also, this chapter was kind of just an introduction and is way shorter than all the others, so yeah, there's that. Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

If passing out had been painful, then waking back up was pure torture. Stiles groaned as he gradually came to, feeling as if a band of tiny pissed-off emo men were playing angry rock songs in his head. It was probably My Chemical Romance. That Bob Bryar was a hellion on the drums.  
  
Gathering his wits, Stiles tried to take stock of his surroundings without giving himself away. Swaying. He was lightly swaying. Slitting his eyes open, Stiles noted that he was in a small room with hooks rising from the floor. Or, wait, was that the ceiling? Looking down, or rather up, he realized that he was hanging from a similar hook by a thin but strong rope tightly tied around his feet with his arms dangling towards the floor.  
  
“What the…” he muttered as he glanced to his left and right, finding that he was not the only one in this state. There was another body in the same position as Stiles on his right, though this person was not moving. As his eyes began to adjust to the poor lighting of the room, Stiles suddenly recognized the stubbled jaw and muscled everything beside him. Well, if it wasn’t Beacon Hills’ own resident Sourwolf Derek Hale himself. Even in sleep, Derek looked pissed off, his mouth turned in a snarl and his face pale and drawn. But that was probably due to the large knife sticking out of his gut. And boy, did that look painful.  
  
Stiles cursed his luck. Not only was he kidnapped (or was it packnapped?) and hanging upside down in what looked like it could be the set to a Maroon 5 music video, but he was also stuck with Derek. Again. Seriously, why was it always him? At least Derek was asleep and couldn’t yell at him. Then again, he also couldn’t do anything to get them out of this mess either. Stiles didn’t know why no one was watching them or what they wanted, but he was sure they would be back soon, and it wouldn’t be to drop them down and send them on their merry way.  
  
Looking around the empty room, Stiles decided that he was going to have to be the one to do something. When his eyes again landed on the knife sticking out of Derek’s side, his stomach twisted in dread. “No,” he whispered, “not that.”  
  
 _Well, what else are you going to do? It’s not like he’s even going to notice._  
  
“What the hell?” Stiles wondered aloud. “Who said that?”  
  
 _It’s your fairy godmother,_ the voice deadpanned. _Blippity bloppity bloo and all that shit. No, dumbass, it’s your conscious, now shut up and take the knife!_  
  
“Wouldn’t my conscious be telling me to not painfully rip a knife out a man’s stomach cavity? Also, I’m a tad concerned that you couldn’t even get the magic words right."  
  
 _You’re hearing a strange voice in your head and your biggest concern is that it got Disney lyrics wrong?_  
  
“Fair point,” Stiles conceded. “But I’m still not going to be ripping any pointy objects out of Derek’s body.”  
  
 _Do you even listen to yourself? Anyway, all you have to do is swipe the knife, cut yourself down, and make a break for the exit over there. Easy peasy._  
  
“What, and just leave Derek here by himself? Seriously, what kind of conscious are you?”  
  
 _The one who is going to get you out of here alive! Honestly, what has Wolf-face over there ever done for you? Sure, he’s smoking, but he’s kind of an asshat. Take the knife and run, kid._  
  
“Derek has saved my life plenty of times! And yeah he’s an… asshat… but he’s also a pretty decent guy sometimes!” Stiles finished and waited for a snarky reply, but the voice was oddly quiet. “Fine, I’ll do this myself,” he said as he resolved himself and began reaching for the knife. As his fingers closed around the hilt and he pulled, his resolve wavered as the knife was buried. Deep.  
  
“I’m so going to regret this,” he muttered as he began gently wiggling. The sucking sound the knife made as it slowly inched out made Stiles gag before it finally wrenched out of Derek’s side in a spurt of blood. “Ew! Ew! Gross, gross, gross,” Stiles whimpered as he stared at the trickle of blood leaking out of Derek’s side. Thankfully Derek was still passed out, though his snarl relaxed into more of a grimace.  
  
“Okay, okay. Okay, Stiles ole’ buddy, ole’ pal, it’s just a little bit of blood. Just some Sourwolf blood, no reason to freak out. Now let’s just get out of here,” he muttered as he began to raise the knife, slick with blood. Unfortunately, it was a little too slick and started to slip from his grasp. “No, no, no!” Stiles grabbed uselessly for the knife, but it left his hand and clattered to the ground, a splatter of blood on its handle vaguely resembling a grinning face.  
  
Stiles let his hands dangle by his ears and stared at the offending knife. “You win this time knife, but don’t think I won’t remember this.” One of the congealing droplets of blood started to run down the hilt. “Oh, don’t cry dude,” Stiles appealed. “It’s not your fault. I’m the idiot that dropped you.” He paused and then let out a huff of air. “Hearing voices and talking to inanimate objects. I’m losing it.”  
  
He sighed and resigned himself to wait out whatever awful ending was planned for him. He hoped that whatever it was, it would be quick. And as painless as possible. Knowing hunters, though, he realized that it would be anything but.  
  
“Maybe they’ll chop me up into little bits and send me out to my friends in pies. Yeah, I’m sure I’d make a good pie. I’d be more of a savory flavor. My dad would---” He flailed around as he was struck with an idea. His dad! What had his dad taught him about rope? “As long as the rope isn’t too thick,” he had advised when he’d caught Stiles and Scott trying to burn their way through a jump rope for ‘science.’ “All you need is a little friction and the rope will yield.”  
  
Stiles immediately hoisted himself up and ripped one the shoelaces out of his threadbare converse. He looped the lace around the rope, noting that it was fortunately not too thick. Ignoring the sting in his abs from keeping his body up, he furiously began sawing back and forth. The rope began to fray around the edges and eventually snapped. Stiles let out a victorious hoot before losing his breath as he hit the ground. Hard.  
  
Stiles groaned as he rolled over to face the knife again. It had resumed its obnoxious evil grinning at his physical ineptitude and he resolutely vowed to get into better shape. Or not. Because that would require exercise. ‘Nuff said.  
  
Taking some time to let the blood reorient itself in his body, he further surveyed the room. It was grimy, but otherwise free of clutter. To his left was a dimly lit hallway partially obstructed by a door that looked to have been bashed in one time too many. In front of him was a small supply closet, outfitted with some shelving and what looked to be a rat repellent. “Yeah,” Stiles snorted. “Gotta keep your priorities straight. Wouldn’t want your prisoners to be gnawed on by the rats.”  
  
Realizing that his body would never really feel good after that fall, Stiles grabbed the knife and rolled to his feet. “Okay Sourwolf, time to wake up from your nap---” Stiles abruptly cut off when he heard voices echoing down the corridor. “Shit!” he muttered, crouching beside Derek’s head.  
  
“Derek,” he patted the older man’s cheek while trying to peek down the hallway. “It’d be great if you could wake up now! Don’t make me hit you again! Why do I always have to hit you?” Derek didn’t stir and the voices were coming closer. “You are such a pain in my ass.” he said as he cut the rope tying Derek to the ceiling and winced as he hit the floor face first. Stiles only had a second to bemoan the man’s handsome face (wait, what?) before dragging Derek’s limp body into the storage closet and firmly wedging the slatted door shut, just in time to see two beef cakes stroll into the room and notice his and Derek’s conspicuous absence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was too impatient to wait until tomorrow to post another chapter, so here! Also, if anyone was wondering, the title is a slightly modified title to a Fall Out Boy song. It made me feel witty, so there's that. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Peering between two slats in the door, Stiles had to wonder if there was a douchebag quota that hunters had to fulfill before being inducted fully into the hunting circle. The guys currently assessing the hook room were so heavily muscled that questions of magically induced muscles floated through Stiles’ head. Oh wait, yeah, those were called steroids. One of the men had fiery red hair and blue eyes that spoke of some kind of Irish heritage, while the other was bald with a mustache. You know, Stiles didn’t really understand the whole bald with a mustache thing. Why shave your head when you obviously have the power to grow hair. Or maybe it was some kind of medical mystery where hair couldn’t grow on the head but could on the face. Stiles had once read a fascinating article on the mystifying powers of goat milk on hair growth--- Focus! He needed to focus. Anyway, the two in the room obviously weren’t chosen for their mental prowess as they were both staring at Derek and Stiles’ empty hooks with equally dumbfounded looks. It would almost be comical if Stiles wasn’t afraid they were going to find and beat the shit out of him. Literally.  
  
“Oi!” barked the red head, sadly with no accent. “Where’s the scrawny fairy boy?” Baldy just twitched his mustache in answer.  
  
Well, that’s not very nice, Stiles thought, glancing at Derek, who was currently drooling on Stiles’ clavicle. It’s not like Derek could help that he had elfin features.  
  
_He’s referring to you, dumbass._  
  
Oh, so nice of you to reappear floating voice, Stiles snarked. It’s not like I needed you 5 minutes ago when I dropped the knife! Also, I’m not scrawny! I’m lean. Like Jackie Chan.  
   
_Jackie Cha- you know what, never mind. Anyway, you obviously didn’t need me since you solved it on your own. And I’m here to help now. All you gotta do is stab Derek in the throat to wake him up and then throw him at the meat heads. They’ll be completely distracted and you can make your getaway!_  
  
Dude, for the last time, I am not sacrificing Derek!  
  
_Are you sure you don’t want to just---_  
  
No! Now shut up, they’re leaving.  
  
“Oh man, boss isn’t gonna be happy ‘bout this,” the red head muttered, starting to back out of the room. “We need to find them before they see anything. Or escape.” Mustache man, who at this point was beginning to look like a mute, just glared his agreement and the two quickly excited the room.  
  
Stiles waited a couple of seconds before cautiously easing the door open, only to lose his balance and flail to the ground. As if that wasn’t enough, Derek followed and landed completely on top of him, their chests pressing together. Stiles took a moment to bemoan all of his life choices (definitely _not_ to notice that their bodies oddly fit together) before attempting to scramble out from underneath the werewolf.  
  
“Dude, someone needs to lay off the werewolf kibble! Also, I know you’re attracted to me and everything, but don’t you think you’re being a little too forward?” Stiles barely managed to regain an arm before Derek’s eyes suddenly shot open and began frantically searching the room, finally landing on Stiles and narrowing.  
  
“Well,” Stiles chuckled nervously, hoping Derek hadn’t heard that last part about attraction. “This looks bad.”  
  
“Yes. It does,” Derek growled, but hey! At least he was using words!  
  
“Oh, dude, you don’t know how good it is to hear your voice. I thought I was going to have to deal with this all on my own.” Stiles’ grin melted under Derek’s intense glower. “Um, as nice as this is, could you maybe, I don’t know, move off me?”  
  
Derek’s demeanor didn’t change but he climbed to his feet. Or, at least, he tried to. As soon as he stood, he immediately stumbled to his knees with a small gasp of pain. Stiles attempted to catch him, but Derek had already fallen unconscious to the ground. Stiles quickly dropped down beside him, his heart in his throat.  
  
“Dude,” Stiles breathed. “Please don’t be dead.” He sighed with relief when he saw the vein still weakly pulsing in Derek’s neck. It would be just his luck for the wolf to die on his watch.  
  
He rolled Derek over to assess his injuries. Surprisingly, there was little to see. The only other wound besides the tear from the knife was a small pinprick on his neck.  
  
“So they got you the same way,” Stiles observed while palming a similar mark on his own neck from the tranquilizer. Even with the tranqs in his system and the lack of injuries on his body, there was something wrong. Derek shouldn’t have been experiencing that much pain from so little and, even worse, the knife wound should have been healing.  
  
Stiles glared at Derek’s neck, trying to make all the pieces fall into place. As he continued to stare, Derek’s eyes fluttered open and he gazed blearily at Stiles.  
  
“Hey sleepyhead, way to pass out on me again,” Stiles cheerfully said. “So standing up is a bad idea. Maybe we should try something a little less strenuous. Like rolling. Yeah, rolling is good.”  
  
Derek just continued to glare over Stiles’ right shoulder as if he was having trouble focusing on him. Stiles wouldn’t really be surprised. Honestly, it was a miracle the guy _didn’t_ have permanent brain damage after the amount of times he had been knocked out or been clocked with a foreign object. Gotta give credit to that werewolf healing, he supposed.  
  
Belatedly, he realized that he and Derek were still in danger and were sitting ducks if they stayed in the room. Now that Derek was out of commission, however, Stiles wasn’t really sure what to do. He couldn’t carry Derek, that much he was certain of, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to leave him there unprotected, floating voice be damned.  
  
Well, first things first, they had to get out of the room. Stiles dragged a pliant Derek over to the doorway, trying not to take a sadistic pleasure in the way his face pulled and caught across the crumbling cement. Poor Derek’s face, he thought. It sure was taking a beating today.  
  
Unceremoniously dropping the older man beside the doorframe, Stiles peered into the dimly lit hallway. It stretched out for several hundred feet before taking a sharp curve to the left. There weren’t any visible doors, which caused Stiles to curse under his breath. It was clear for now, but Stiles was sure that it would be crawling with hunters once the two men reached their “boss.”  
  
“Stiles.”  
  
Turning, Stiles realized that Derek was trying to use the doorframe to pull himself up off the floor.  
  
“Hey, what do you think you are doing?” Stiles demanded, pushing a straining Derek back to the ground.  
  
“I’m _trying_ to stand,” Derek hissed through his teeth, though he let Stiles gently lower him to a sitting position.  
  
“Yeah, because that turned out so well last time. When you passed out.”  
  
Derek growled. “We have to get out of here.”  
  
“Yeah, I’m aware,” Stiles snapped. “I’m working on it, but you’re obviously in no condition to be running and we can’t exactly call for backup, so sit your little werewolf ass down and let me figure this out.”  
  
Derek growled again, but then lowered his eyes. “I’m not healing.”  
  
Stiles was about to snark back that he’d noticed, but then recognized the look Derek was leveling at the ground. It was helplessness. Derek was used to being the alpha, the one who took care of everyone else. It was probably costing him a lot not to be able to spring up and take charge. Though he was probably fearful of what was inhibiting his healing, he was probably more fearful that he wouldn’t be able to take care of his pack (and Stiles was pack, Derek had made sure he knew that long ago). Derek was completely at the mercy of Stiles, and Stiles didn’t begrudge the man for being a little afraid of that.  
  
“Look,” he began a little more gently than he had intended. “We’re going to figure out what is causing this and we’re going to fix it. But in the meantime, we need to get out of here, and to do that you’re going to have to let me help you. I know it won’t be easy,” he allowed at Derek’s grimace, “but you have to trust that we can do this together. Plus, I’m pretty much your only option, so.”  
  
Derek squinted mistrustfully at Stiles long enough for Stiles to give up hope of getting an answer before he finally gave a minute nod of his head.  
  
“Okay?” Stiles said in surprise before grinning. “Okay.” He kneeled beside Derek and extended his arm. “Do you think you could stand if I was helping you?”  
  
Derek scowled at the proffered arm but reluctantly allowed the younger man to slide it around his back and slowly pull him up. His breathing was ragged by the time they were in an upright position, but he seemed like he would at least be able to hobble along beside Stiles.  
  
“Alright, let’s get this show on the road.” The two began to slowly maneuver down the hallway, occasionally having to stop to allow Derek to garner his strength. Stiles knew that Derek hated having to rely on someone else for help and that he was suffering through it without complaint was a big step for the wolf. Derek trusted him, Stiles thought almost giddily. They had come a long way since that night in the swimming pool all those months ago.  
  
After what felt like years, they finally reached the curve in the hallway. As they rounded it, Stiles let out a small wounded noise. Looks like they weren’t the only ones who were taken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I know I said I would try to post every day, but the next few days are going to be kind of chaotic for me (it's Christmas!). I'll definitely make sure to post by Friday, though! Thanks for reading and Happy Holidays!


	4. Chapter 4

The room looked identical to the one that they had just escaped from, right down to the utility closet with rat poison sitting on the shelves. The only difference was that in this room every hook was being used.  
  
“Dude, looks like we were overflow,” Stiles breathed, afraid to break the perfect stillness of the fifteen or so bodies hanging from the ceiling. “Are they all…?”  
  
“Alive,” Derek grunted. “For now.”  
  
Okay. Well, at least they weren’t witnesses to mass murder.  
  
Stiles dragged Derek a little closer and peered into one of the inverted faces. The woman looked human enough, but Stiles knew from experience that that didn’t mean anything. “Werewolves?” he questioned.  
  
“Some.”  
  
“So, do we just cut them down and hope they wake up, or…?” Stiles trailed off, not really sure where he was even going with that.  
  
“No. We leave them and get out of here.”  
  
Stiles rounded on Derek, as much as he could with the wolf almost completely draped over him. “You can’t be serious? We are not leaving them here!”  
  
“Stiles,” Derek sighed with the look of a parent dealing with a petulant child. “We wouldn’t be able to escape without notice if we were with all these people. I’m injured and you only have a knife, meaning we also wouldn’t be able to stage any kind of attack on the hunters. Besides, we don’t even know these people- they could be hunters from a rival family for all we know.”  
  
“You just said that some of them were werewolves! They’re probably all people who, like us, were captured by hunters!”  
  
It was clear that Derek was beginning to wane again, but that didn’t stop his angry retort. “It doesn’t matter. Their survival would get in the way of ours. I’m not going to allow that to happen.”  
  
“Screw that!” Stiles snapped, causing Derek to blink in surprise. “If that’s the way we start thinking, then we’re no different than the thugs who brought us here.” Stiles began to pull away from Derek. “You can go ahead and make your stealthy escape, but don’t expect me to abandon these people here and come with you.”  
  
Derek clutched even tighter to Stiles as he struggled to pull away. “Stop. Stiles, stop!” When Stiles huffily allowed Derek to still him, Derek continued with a sigh. “We can try to wake them up, but I’m not promising that I’ll willingly let you stick around for whatever plan they come up with.”  
  
Stiles beamed at Derek and then gently lowered him to the floor. “Great! I’m going to start cutting them down, ‘kay?” Stiles said before turning to the nearest body, a man who looked to be in his early twenties, and slashed the rope, allowing him to fall face first to the ground.  
  
“Is that why my face hurts so much?” Derek grouched while rubbing his cheek tenderly, though he was trying to hide a small smile from the younger man.  
  
Stiles grimaced, looking slightly chastised. “Well, yeah, that among other things…”  
  
Derek let that slide as he watched Stiles flit through the room, shearing ropes as he went. Some of the felled people were starting to stir, though none looked to be in peak condition. Stiles worryingly noted, however, that none were showing any signs of weakness as severe as Derek’s. Once all were down, Stiles dropped to the ground beside the first man, who had finally made it to a sitting position.  
  
“Hey man, how are you feeling?” Stiles inquired gently, placing his hand on the other’s knee. He pulled back abruptly when he heard growling, but quickly realized it wasn’t coming from the man but from Derek. Stiles stared imploringly at Derek, but the wolf just turned and glared resolutely at the ground. Okaaaay then.  
  
Returning his attention (but not his hand) to the injured man in front of him, Stiles again asked him how he was feeling.  
  
“Like I was hit with a wrecking ball.” The man grunted.  
  
Stiles bit his lip and barely refrained from making a Miley Cyrus joke. Seriously, no one would ever understand his pain. “Fantastic,” he continued, clapping his hands together. “My name is Stiles and that scowling lump over there is Derek.”  
  
“I’m Seth.” The man glanced at Derek and quickly averted his gaze. A werewolf then, Stiles guessed, if he was showing submission to an alpha.  
  
“Okay, hi Seth. Do you happen to remember anything about how you got here?”  
  
“We were all taken together.” It comes from behind them. Stiles looks back to see a spikey haired woman standing with her hands on her hips. “We’re the Forton pack.”  
  
Stiles frowned. Forton, California, was a good three hour’s drive from Beacon Hills. If he’d had any inclination of where they were before, he was completely lost now.  
  
“Yeah,” piped up a short red head who suddenly appeared by Seth. “They scattered us and took us out separately. It was really smart actually. We didn’t stand a chance.”  
  
Whipping around, Stiles locked gazes with Derek, finding his hazel eyes a mirror of his own fears. The hunters wouldn’t even have to scatter their pack; they’d done a pretty good job of that themselves. Stiles could only hope that the others were smart enough to band together, or at least stay hidden, once they realized that both he and Derek were missing.  
  
Stiles swallowed and redirected his attention to the gathering pack. “How long have you guys been here?”  
  
“Don’t know,” Spiky-hair shrugged. “We only just woke up. But we have dealt with this group of hunters before. They’re ruthless, hardly ever follow the code. They’ve wanted to take us out for years.” The woman’s eyes flashed a deep wine-red. “Like to see them try.”  
  
“Well,” Stiles began. “It looks like they are trying so it’d probably be a good idea to get out of here. Hey,” he threw up his hands in a placating gesture at the low growls that chorused throughout the room. “I don’t like the idea of just letting them get away with this either, but we can’t take them in this weakened state without a solid plan. You guys said it yourself, these hunters are vicious, and I don’t want anyone else getting hurt.”  
  
“So what are we going to do?” Seth tentatively asked from his spot beside the spiky-haired alpha, looking to her for reassurance.  
  
She placed a calming hand on her beta’s neck before turning back to Stiles and Derek. “I’d like a moment to discuss the situation with my pack.”  
  
Stiles nodded. “Just know that two of the hunters have realized that Derek and I are missing. They could come back with reinforcements at any time.” The alpha acknowledged him a small dip of her head and then gathered her pack into a tight circle, where they began quietly conversing.  
  
Stiles took the much needed downtime to reassess Derek’s injuries. Slumping beside the older man, he peered into his face. Derek wasn’t looking to be much better; in fact, he looked even paler and more drawn than before. His breathing was slightly ragged though he had been sitting for several minutes now and he was clutching at his side where the knife had been. Leaning even closer, Stiles tried to poke lightly at the wound, only to be roughly shoved back by a disapproving Derek. Stiles grinned ludicrously up at the man before he abruptly sobered and focused on him with an intensity the werewolf was uncomfortable with.  
  
“How are you holding up?” He asked earnestly, his eyes glowing amber in the dim lighting of the room.  
  
Looking discerned, Derek answered truthfully, “Not too well.” He surprised Stiles (and, it seemed, himself) by continuing, “I think it’s wolfsbane. Hybrid form. Keeps me from healing and shifting.” He cut off with a small grunt of pain, clutching harder at his side wound.  
  
Stiles whimpered empathetically while his hands flitted helplessly by his sides. He’d never been one to sit idly by when someone else was in pain or needed cared for. That’s why his father arrived home every night to home-cooked meals, why Scott hadn’t been left alone for more than five minutes after his father left in a drunken haze, and now why the pack always had someone to turn to when they craved comfort and understanding. After all, Stiles had always thought, if he couldn’t offer solace, what else was he really good for?  
  
But his ministrations had never really extended to Derek. Derek, who denied himself any offered support, who shunned unnecessary touch and loved to torture himself with self-induced isolation. No, Derek had always been off-limits, no matter how much Stiles had craved to console him and erase the lifetime of horrors Derek had suffered with soothing touches and lingering embraces, however briefly.  
  
When Derek let out another constrained gasp, however, Stiles couldn’t control himself any longer. He surged forward and wrapped both gangly arms around the larger man, feeling him instantly stiffen at the unexpected contact. Stiles didn’t offer any words of comfort, just hugged the werewolf tightly to his chest. He knew that Derek trusted action over words, and Stiles understood that any words he could offer (and he had plenty) would only diminish his intent. After several minutes, Derek finally loosened and sank into the embrace, letting his head fall into the space under Stiles’ jaw. They remained that way for a long while, waiting for the other pack to come to a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

After some time, the alpha from the Fulton pack finally turned back to Stiles and Derek. She looked a little surprised to see them together, but made no comment on it.  
  
“We’ve come to a decision,” she said with an air of authority.  
  
Stiles quickly untangled himself from Derek and self-consciously avoided eye contact with the man. He felt a little embarrassed for losing control of himself and touching Derek without permission, but he wasn’t really sorry for the comfort he felt from the touch.  
  
“My pack is very thankful for your help in waking us up,” the alpha continued. “Especially since we could only hinder your own escape. We plan to leave as silently as possible in the hopes of attacking the hunters again another day. You are welcome to join us.” The rest of the pack all voiced their approval.  
  
Stiles looked to Derek to see what his take on this was. Stiles knew what _he_ wanted to do--- Derek was too weak for them to make it on their own and Stiles wasn’t about to turn down any help, no matter how much it might hurt the pride of his alpha. He was fully prepared to argue his point and was already gearing up for some heavy gesturing (read: flailing) when he caught Derek’s eye. Stiles was so surprised when Derek nodded for him to accept the invitation that he dumbly stared at the wolf in shock for several moments too long. Derek raised an eyebrow and smirked, prompting Stiles to snap out of his daze. He readily accepted the other alpha’s offer, face burning in embarrassment.  
  
“Seth, Leliana,” the other alpha said, gesturing to the young man and redhead, “Scout ahead. Fall back if you see anyone. We’ll be right behind you.” Both betas nodded and sprang lightly from the room.  
  
Stiles hauled Derek to his feet, glad that the alpha had not offered any assistance for Derek. Derek’s wolf wouldn’t like having members from another pack touching him in his weakened state. Truth be told, Stiles wouldn’t like it either, though he wasn’t exactly ready to face the implications of that thought.  
  
“Okay, big guy, let’s get out of here.” Stiles nudged Derek, eliciting a small smile from the man for his troubles. They followed the others as the pack trailed out of the room into another long hallway.  
  
Moving as one, the pack plus Stiles and Derek moved from room to room, following subtle marks Seth and Leliana were leaving on the ground with their claws to guide them. They were moving fairly quickly and hadn’t met a single soul, friend or foe. Stiles couldn’t really believe their luck, especially with how his usually went. He began to become suspicious as they entered yet another room, crates littered across the floor and not a hunter in sight.  
  
 _As you well should be. Something’s not right: you can tell, I can tell. Probably even ol’ wolf face can tell, though it’d be a miracle if he could actually manage to do anything about it._  
  
Oh, Floating Voice, how kind of you to grace us with your presence, Stiles thought snarkily. And armed with insults, no less.  
  
 _Hey man, someone’s got to say what everyone else is thinking. This place is too quiet. It’s a hunter’s lair, there’s got to be some people here, right?_  
  
Well, yeah, but it’s not like we really have another choice. Also, why do you even care? And don’t give me that crap about being my conscious, because I know you’re not.  
  
 _My, a bit bitter are we? Fine, I’m not your conscious, but I’m not looking for trouble. In fact, I seem to have developed an interest in your survival, however much of a fool’s errand that may be._  
  
Stiles snorted, drawing a strange look from Derek. Stiles flashed him an apologetic grin before continuing his chat with the voice--- Thanks for the vote of confidence. But seriously, you’re creepy. Get out of my head.  
  
 _I’m only trying to help you. Just be aware._  
  
And here the voice fell quiet.  
  
Stiles only had time to huff in exasperation before twin howls sounded from ahead of them and a bullet whizzed past his nose, missing him by a mere inch. Yup, Stiles thought, just my luck.  
  
Stiles immediately used his hold on Derek to swing them both behind a large pile of crates. He watched as the Fulton pack dropped to the ground under the storm of bullets in the middle of the room. As they did, a small group of hunters burst into the room, led by none other than his old friends Blue-Eyes and Baldy. Honestly, this just kept getting better and better.  
  
And better, he groused again, as a man grabbed both him and Derek and dragged them to the middle of the room to join the rest of the pack. He noticed that Seth and Leliana were both back with their pack, bruises already fading from their arms.  
  
Once Stiles and Derek were thrown unceremoniously to the ground, Stiles decided to act. He reached for the knife in the back pocket of his jeans, but a hunter noticed and shot Derek in the arm.  
  
“Don’t even think about it,” the man grunted as Stiles forgot the knife in favor of frantically trying to stem the flow of blood now running freely down Derek’s arm. Derek, barely even cognizant, slumped into Stile’s side, smearing blood along Stile’s collarbone and sleeve.  
  
“What the fuck did you do to him? Why isn’t he healing?” Stiles screeched, all but frothing at the mouth in his rage and panic. If it weren’t for the guns trained on Derek, he probably would be slashing at anything that moved, consequences be damned.  
  
“I wouldn’t get too feisty, boy,” Blue-Eyes grinned. “Your alpha is chock full of wolfsbane. Any sudden moves and he dies that much faster.” This stilled Stiles, though he kept his hand firmly pressed against Derek’s wound.  
  
“What do you want?” the alpha of the Fulton pack spoke up, baring her teeth at the men surrounding them.  
  
Blue-Eyes only laughed at her. “What we always want. To kill werewolves.”  
  
“My pack includes several humans, all of which are present. Not to mention the one here alone with his alpha,” she said, nodding her head towards Stiles. “That hardly seems to follow the code.”  
  
The hunter merely shrugged. “Hazard of running with wolves. Besides, we need this one,” he said gesturing to Stiles. “His alpha has some information we want, and I’m sure he’ll be more than willing to share once his pet human starts screaming.” He threw Stiles a hungry look, revealing the monster just concealed beneath. Barely conscious, Derek curled around Stiles tighter and let out a low snarl, his eyes unfocused but flaring red at Blue-Eyes.  
  
The hunter chuckled and sank into a crouch in front of Derek and Stiles. “Does that bother you, wolf? I could paint the walls with his blood, snap every bone in his body, rip open---” His monologue ended with a gurgle when Stiles’ knife slashed across his throat, causing his brilliant blue eyes to darken and fade. Around them, the werewolves tore into their captives, allowing Stiles time to grab Derek and practically carry him to the exit.  
  
The other wolves joined him in his frantic dash through the hallways. Stiles stumbled under Derek’s impressive weight, but was relieved when the other alpha sidled up next to him and took Derek into her arms. Stiles was not above accepting help, and Derek was too far gone at this point to care. As they neared what looked like an exit, they heard heavy footsteps and belligerent shouts following them.  
  
Stiles realized that even if they did make it out of the building, the hunters would be right behind them. Even with a head start, they would be under too much fire to escape. What they needed was a distraction, even a brief one, to keep the hunters occupied as the wolves disappeared into the trees. Stiles glanced at Derek, sickly pale and disturbingly vulnerable in his position in the other alpha’s arms. Without another thought, Stiles grabbed the alpha’s arm, said a quick “take care of him for me,” and turned his back on the exit.  
  
As the other pack cleared the building, Stiles took a defensive position in the middle of the room. The knife flashed viciously in his palm, seeming almost to glow in eagerness to fight. Stiles shifted his head to both sides, cracking the joints there, and then lifted his head high. When the hunters neared him, Stiles’ mouth curled into a bloodthirsty facsimile of a smile and he stepped forward.  
  
The first hunter in his range promptly fell to the ground, his throat torn open with a wicked glint of the knife. The second was on the ground almost at the same time, his eyes unfocused from a blow to his head.  
  
After watching two of their own go down by what they thought would be an easy target, the other hunters slowed and approached Stiles with a little more caution. Stiles smirked at them as he twirled the knife in one hand.  
  
Before any could draw their guns, Stiles sprang into their group, tearing and slashing at anything that moved. He danced between individuals, knife moving freely. Every hit met its mark, every slash ended with a gurgling throat, but Stiles soon began to feel slight pricks of pain from where they were landing blows on his body. He may have been a good fighter, but not even a werewolf would be able to fend off the amount of hunters now in the room. As he was finally pinned to the ground, he turned his head to see that the pack had all made it to the tree line. Safe. Derek was safe. He smiled as a boot connected with his head and welcomed the darkness like the embrace of an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want the inspiration for the end of this chapter, it's "Save Yourself, I'll Hold Them Back" by My Chemical Romance. Second My Chem reference of the fic, yeah! Anyway, I seem to be posting every couple of days, so hopefully that continues! Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

Waking up with a mind-bending headache was not something Stiles liked to do, especially twice in one day. Then again, he realized as he blearily opened his eyes and took in his surroundings, it was kind of the least of his current problems.  
  
The room he was in was actually quite cozy, a fire lit in a corner fireplace and mahogany furniture gleaming under artfully dimmed lights. It wasn’t really the scene he had pictured being interrogated by hunters in. Oh, except for the part where he was tied to a chair. Yeah, that was happening.  
  
He tried wriggling his hands out of the rope ties, but succeeded only in getting some real nasty rope burn across his wrists. At least it was only his hands tied to the chair arms and not his whole body. It was a bit insulting that the hunter’s didn’t see him as enough of a threat to incarcerate any further (hey, he had held his own in that fight!), but he didn’t mind using that to his advantage.  
  
Taking stock of his injuries, he was surprised to find that other than the headache (and now the irritated skin around his wrists) he only had a few minor scrapes and bruises scattered along his body.  
  
There was a surprising amount of blood splashed across his arms and especially his hands and Stiles tried not to dwell on how it had come there. Just the thought of his hand forcing the knife into the soft flesh of the hunter’s neck had him almost gagging. Stiles hated blood, hated its ripe copper smell, the way it could easily be wiped from a tabletop but would congeal under fingernails for days.  
  
But what he hated most was the way it seemed to call to him, the way he sometimes craved it and the carnage it symbolized. He had never held anything but disgust for it until the day the pack had really come together and he had realized that there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for them. Now, if any of the pack was put into even the smallest of dangers, he would feel an all-encompassing urge to rip and tear until blood was all he could feel. It scared him, these feelings, and so he often tried to ignore them.  
  
His reverie was interrupted by the door in front of him gently opening and closing, allowing a hunter he didn’t recognize to enter. The man was tall and of average looks, his closely shaved hair revealing several scars along his hairline and scalp. He looked friendly enough, though, with a wide smile extending across his face and warm brown eyes twinkling in a deep set face.  
  
“Ah, I see you are awake,” the man said kindly. “How are you feeling?”  
  
Stiles wasn’t fooled by the man’s warm demeanor. He had been witness to enough of his father’s interrogation techniques to see right through this guy’s act. That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to play the game a little himself, though.  
  
He shrunk back into the seat, at least as far as he could in the rope bindings, and widened his eyes for the “deer in the headlight” look (Erica had once laughingly told him he had Bambi eyes- at least they were useful for something). “What do you want?” he said in a small voice.  
  
He winced when the man stepped closer, causing his Cheshire grin to stretch impossibly wider.  
  
“Don’t worry, son,” the man practically purred. “I don’t want to hurt you. My name is Cullen and I just need you to answer a couple of questions for me.”  
  
Stiles didn’t have to fake when his body froze at the word “son.” It was an endearment he’d only ever heard his father use, and he had to hold back a sneer to hear it dropped so casually from a hunter’s mouth. He forced himself to instead stare fearfully at the ground, voice shaking as he breathed “That’s not what the other one said. He said he would, he said he was going to---” He closed his eyes and let out a small whimper.  
  
The man -Cullen- crouched in front of Stiles (and what was with these guys and crouching in front of people? Did they _want_ to get their throats slashed out?) and made soothing noises, trying to calm a seemingly terrified Stiles. This close he couldn’t see Stiles working at the bindings around his wrists.  
  
“Listen,” he continued. “All you have to do is tell me a little about your alpha and then you’re free to leave. We don’t hurt humans, and I certainly wouldn’t want to hurt you.” And here he slid his hand onto Stiles’ knee.  
  
Stiles desperately wanted to jerk away from the man screaming “bad touch” as loud as his lungs could manage, but he didn’t want to die even more. He forced himself to peer at the man from under his eyelashes uncertainly and whisper, “My alpha, he’s... not merciful. If he found out…” He shuddered.  
  
The hunter leaned even closer and his thumb started working small circles into Stile’s knee. “If you helped us, son, you’d never have to worry about your alpha again.”  
  
Stiles pretended to think it over, feeling the hunter’s hand slide an inch up his thigh. Finally, he lifted his head and breathed, “Okay.”  
  
Cullen’s grin edged into a leer. “Son, you don’t know how happy I am to hear that.”  
  
Stiles smiled. “Probably almost as happy as I am to finally have gotten my hands untied.” He quickly struck Cullen across the forehead with his newly freed palm while simultaneously kicking him in the groin. Pushing the man off of him, he sprinted for the door only for it to swing inward and Baldy to tackle him to the ground. His head smacked the ground hard (forget Derek, _Stiles_ was the one who was going to have permanent brain damage) and was dragged struggling back to the chair.  
  
A loud moan sounded from the ground. “You little shit, I’m going to kill---”  
  
Baldy cut Cullen off with a sigh. “I told you this wouldn’t work. The kid’s smart enough to get off the hook and almost escape, he’s smart enough to see through your bullshit.”  
  
Stiles almost chuckled. Damn right, Baldy.  
  
Cullen eventually made it to his feet and both hunters came to stand menacingly in front of him, Cullen clutching his bleeding forehead. “Since we’re no longer being nice about this,” Cullen hissed, “you’re going to tell us what we want to know or you’re going to suffer for it.” He emphasized his point with a backhand across Stiles’ face.  
  
Stiles couldn’t help but laugh. “Dude, did you seriously just pimp-slap me?” No one ever said he had any self-preservation instincts.  
  
The second slap across his face was much harder, and he had to turn his head and spit out blood that began pooling when he bit his tongue.  
  
“Well, kid,” Baldy began, “You proved to be a bit of a wildcard. We didn’t expect you to be anything but a cowering little pet to your alpha. Care to explain how you took down six of my men with only a knife?”  
  
“Hmmm…” Stiles pondered. “Well, might’ve been my brief stint in Afghanistan, learned quite a bit there. Maybe my time serving as a drug lord in the Beacon Hills division of the Irish mafia? Oh!” He snapped his fingers and grinned. “It’s probably because my father has access to the largest police arsenal available in Central California and I’ve been training with him since I was 6.” The last he ended on a deadpan.  
  
Baldy looked horrified. “Your father is in law enforcement?”  
  
Stiles leisurely leaned back in his seat, his arms coming up behind his head. “Yeah, dumbass, you kidnapped the son of the sheriff. I don’t expect he’ll be too pleased to find that his last living relative is being held captive by a bunch of anti-werewolf vigilantes with guns.”  
  
Stiles fully expected the shocked look the two hunters had as they turned to glance at each other. What he didn’t see coming was Baldy’s face suddenly hardening as he turned to look Stiles directly in the eye. “Do what you need to do,” he ordered Cullin, eyes never breaking from Stiles’. And then walked out of the room.  
  
Stiles swallowed drily as Cullin looked up at him, all pretenses of sanity gone. “Well, son,” the monster in a man’s skin hummed as he advanced on Stiles, “how about we get to those questions I was talking about.”  
  
Stiles didn’t even have time to make a quip before the first blow landed.  


***

Several hours later (or perhaps it was a number of sunlit days, he wasn’t sure) Stiles started to come back to himself. He could feel someone dragging him roughly across cold cement, his head jarring with every bump.

Throughout his questioning, he hadn’t exactly fallen unconscious, but as Cullin had pulled less and less of his punches and Stiles had felt less and less of his body parts, he had started to drift. He didn’t know where he had gone, exactly, but he knew he never wanted to experience it again. The pain would have almost been better than the kind of numbness to the world he had felt.

Abruptly, he felt his captor jerk him by the arms into another chair. He let his head flop lifelessly to the side, his muscles loose and pliant as the other man began threading a plastic strip around his wrists and pulling it tight. Ah, he had been upgraded to the zip tie; maybe they were finally learning their lesson. He made sure to clench his hands as the tie went on, ensuring a little wriggle room. He then felt his legs, arms, and torso duct-taped to the wooden chair before the man grunted, satisfied, and left the room.

As soon as the door closed, Stiles’ head snapped up and he immediately began working at the zip tie. There was no way in hell he was staying here for any longer, even if he had to gnaw off his own hands. Cullin had stuck primarily to punching and kicking, but towards the end his hands had gotten a little too close Stiles’ no-no square, and he wasn’t about to stick around and find out just how far Cullin was willing to go.

The zip tie was strung tight and he couldn’t wiggle his hands through, but Stiles wasn’t too worried. He’d had his dad teach everyone in the pack how to get out of all manner of restraints (Erica had a hay day with the handcuffs), and zip ties weren’t even the hardest on the list. He brought his arms as high as he could, bound as they were to the chair, and slammed them into his knees while rotating the wrists out. The zip tie broke with a snap and Stiles smiled. He would have to thank his dad for totally saving his ass today with his paranoia.

After this, the duct tape was relatively easy to pull off, and he quickly stood. And fell down again. So his injuries were a little worse than he thought. Nothing felt broken, but his whole body ached with bruises that were already starting to bloom across his arms and torso. Fucking Cullin.

This time, Stiles got up much slower, using the chair to support himself. A quick glance around the room showed that besides the door and chair, there was pretty much nothing useful. The ceiling was made of Styrofoam panels that didn’t look like they could be used for a weapon and the chair was too sturdy for Stiles to break with his bare hands. He was contemplating hiding behind the door with the chair when he heard voices outside the room.

Panicking, Stiles turned to use the chair as a weapon only to have a better idea. He heaved his aching body (seriously, ow) onto the chair and pushed one of the ceiling tiles up. Using the chair’s back as a step, he hoisted himself through the hole in the ceiling and slammed the tile back down just as the door opened.

He wasted no time listening to those below him and instead slinked through the small crawlspace as fast as he could. At the other end was a rectangular metal tunnel that ended in darkness. As he pushed his way into it, he couldn’t help but gleefully think that he was a badass, using the air vents to escape vicious hunters and shit.

Crawling through air vents wasn’t nearly as fun as they made it look in the movies. For one, his hands and knees were screaming from the beating they had taken today and crawling wasn’t helping. Also, though he’d never seen himself as claustrophobic, he felt his breath start to come shorter and his mind scream for him to get out as the vent went on.

Finally, he came upon an opening in the vent and saw another crawlspace with tiles that served as the ceiling for the room beneath. He moved into the space, listening for noise below. When he was sure it was empty, he removed one of the tiles and dropped gracefully to the floor. Okay, so maybe he landed in a heap of limbs, but he couldn’t be a badass _all_ the time.

Before he had time to collect himself a shadow moved to his left. He immediately lashed out, but his fist was batted to the side and strong arms circled around him, effectively cutting off all means of escape. He struggled fruitlessly until he realized that he knew these arms. Drawing his gaze up, he was met with familiar hazel eyes.

“Derek?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay Derek's back! So this chapter is a tad bit longer than the others, but I was on a role and wanted to get it out to you guys. So, Happy New Year and all that jazz. Kudos and comments much appreciated:)


	7. Chapter 7

Stiles only took a moment to appreciate Derek’s nod and smile in answer to his question before he was pushing the older man away and whisper-yelling, “What the _fuck_ are you doing here? You can’t be serious! I mean, I always knew that you kind of suck at planning and shit, but even _you_ can’t be so stupid as to come back here! How did you even get in here? Do you _want_ to die? What, you, ugh, I can’t even—” He was almost pacing at this point, furious that Derek had been out, had been _safe_ , and had chosen to come back for God knows what reason. He whirled on Derek. “Why are you even here?”  
  
But Derek wasn’t listening to Stiles’ rant. He was focused with an alarming intensity on a point somewhere above Stiles’ chest. Stiles glanced down in confusion to see the beginnings of a nasty bruise peeking out from his shirt collar. His hand flew up to cover it as he quickly said, “It’s not as bad as it looks.”  
  
Derek, again, wasn’t listening and fell to his knees in front of Stiles, hiking up the younger man’s shirt. Stiles tried to wrench back out of his grip saying, “Hey man, I’ve been bad-touched enough tonight!”, but the wolf only reached a hand up, spreading it against the sea of black and blue splattered across Stiles’ torso almost reverently. Stiles stilled, recognizing the look on Derek’s face from years of experience and quickly tilted Derek’s devastated face up to his. “Derek, this isn’t your fault.”  
  
Derek whined and tried to pull his face from Stiles’ grip, but Stiles was nothing if not persistent. “No, listen to me. You didn’t do this and you aren’t allowed to feel bad about it. I made the choice to stay behind fully knowing what would happen and you can’t punish yourself for my decision. If you were there, you would have done everything you could to keep me from getting hurt, right?” He paused, waiting for Derek to give a hesitant nod. “Then there’s absolutely nothing that you can feel guilty about. You may be the alpha, Derek, but you can’t keep everyone safe at all times.”  
  
Stiles forced Derek to hold eye contact with him, fierce amber boring into wide-eyed hazel, until the wolf finally conceded with a small dip of his head. Stiles smiled gently before letting his hands fall from where they had been curled along each side of Derek’s jawline. Without breaking eye contact, Derek rose from his crouch, his face coming level with Stiles’. He didn’t back away, though, and they found themselves chest to chest, breath intermingling in the space between them.  
  
Stiles could feel his heart hammering in his chest and he licked his lips nervously. Derek caught the movement and his eyes lingered on Stiles’ mouth. Stiles only had time to breathe Derek’s name before the wolf suddenly seemed to snap back to reality and took a hasty step back. “We really should get moving,” he rumbled, eyes dropping to the ground.  
  
The moment broken, Stiles rubbed the back of his neck and nodded. “Yeah, it’s uh, not really safe here.” He nodded again and then started to move down the hallway they had already spent too long in, Derek trailing after.  
  
As they crept from one unobtrusive room to another, he couldn’t help but focus on what had just happened. For a crazy moment, Stiles had almost believed that Derek was going to kiss him. And what was even crazier was that Stiles had wanted him to.  
  
It wasn’t the first time that Stiles had felt something more growing between them. Moments like the one they had just shared started becoming more and more frequent as Stiles and Derek’s relationship had grown. Stiles found that Derek was quietly hilarious when it was just the two of them hanging out in the loft. The older man had a kind of dry sarcastic humor that Stiles couldn’t help but admire. Derek also listened to whatever Stiles had to say, even if it was just ADHD-fueled rambling, which meant a lot to Stiles. Though there were still times where he would revert back to Growly McIssue-Pants, like he had earlier in the supply closet, Derek had really bloomed into a mature alpha and good friend.  
  
Except when he was playing the hero and sacrificing himself to save others. Speaking of which…  
  
“You know, we didn’t really address the part where you’re an idiot for coming back in here.”  
  
“Oh, I’m pretty sure we did,” Derek smirked, walking slightly behind him. “I distinctly remember you saying that I ‘suck at planning and shit’ and that I have a death wish.”  
  
“So you do listen,” Stiles smirked. “Well, you obviously do have a death wish. You should have stayed with the Fulton pack where you were safe. I mean, last time I saw you, you were dying and shit.” Stiles eyes suddenly widened and he turned towards Derek in a panic. “Oh my God, you’re not still dying are you?” He clawed at Derek’s sleeve, trying to find the bullet wound.  
  
“Relax, Stiles,” Derek said, pulling up the edge of his shirt to reveal smooth skin. “The Fulton pack used the bullet from my arm to cure the wolfsbane. I’m healing fine now.”  
  
Stiles sighed in relief. “They let you come back in here all by yourself?”  
  
Derek shrugged indifferently. “They couldn’t stop me. I sent them to warn our pack, though. Wouldn’t want them caught too.”  
  
Stiles’ heart warmed at how Derek so casually called the pack theirs, as in theirs together. He then frowned. Stupid heart and its silly reactions.  
  
He was about to start discussing the pack’s rather inadequate emergency procedure of splitting up at the first sign of danger when suddenly Derek stopped and snapped his gaze to a door on the right.  
  
“Something in that room smells like you.” Derek cocked his head to the side, most likely listening for heartbeats. He then opened the door and breezed through.  
  
“Oh, okay,” Stiles groused as he followed. “It’s not like we should have discussed whether going into the random room, that could be a trap I should add, was a good idea or not. Or the fact that you recognize my smell, which is creepy by the way.”  
  
The room was small, a large mahogany desk taking up much of the room (but seriously, what was up with these hunters and mahogany?). Piles of official looking documents spilled over the desk and continued across parts of the floor. Behind the desk was a large glass-paneled cabinet filled with a variety of keys that probably led to other parts of the building, though Stiles hadn’t met any locked doors yet.  
  
Derek was busy pulling drawers out of the desk and rustling through them. Stiles was about to join him when he felt a nudge in the back of his head.  
  
_-tiles?_  
  
Stiles turned around slowly and found that there was another door hidden in the corner of the room. He approached the door, again feeling the nudge in the back of his head.  
  
_Stiles, please._  
  
On the other side of the door was a small armory. Stiles recognized most of the guns from lessons with his dad, but there were several types of weapons he had never seen before and hoped he never would again. Stiles strolled through the room, admiring the merchandise when a gleam caught his eye. Nestled among a pile of daggers and throwing knives was his knife from earlier. Stiles smiled as he took the blade in his hand and murmured, “Oh, I missed you baby.”  
  
_I missed you, too. You wouldn’t believe how they treat their weapons around here._  
  
Stiles squeaked and dropped the knife back onto the table. Within seconds Derek was in the room, searching for threats. “What’s wrong?” he prompted.  
  
“Oh nothing unless you count the freaking talking knife on the table!” he spat out, glaring at the evil and possibly possessed knife.  
  
_I am not possessed! I’m just an ordinary knife with the unordinary ability to talk. Besides, you weren’t really that concerned when I was just a disconnected voice._  
  
“That’s because I thought I was crazy, not hearing some kind of magic dining utensil!”  
  
“Uh, Stiles?” Derek was giving him a wary look. “Who are you talking to?”  
  
“This glorified butter knife right here,” Stiles said, gesturing to the knife. “He’s been trying to give me bad advice all day. Which I’m glad I didn’t take, because it was stupid.” He finished with a glare in the knife’s direction.  
  
_Hey man, I’ve been around for a long time. I give great advice._  
  
“You told me to leave Derek! What kind of advice is that?”  
  
Derek was looking at Stiles with real concern now, and Stiles took a second to think about how this looked. “Um, Derek, I’m not crazy. The knife really has been talking to me.” At Derek’s dubious look he flailed. “No seriously! I mean you’re a werewolf for God’s sake, how is a magic knife any more farfetched?”  
  
Derek just sighed, rubbing his hand across his face and jaw. “As soon as we get back, Deaton is checking you over for a concussion.” And then he left the room.  
  
“Oh great, knife, now I look crazy. Or concussed. Which, actually, I probably am, but whatever. Why did you even mess with me, anyway?”  
  
_I told you, I like you. You’ve got heart. Plus, I’m tired of being tossed around by those nutjob hunters. Please don’t leave me here!_  
  
Stiles huffed in exasperation, but grabbed the knife and stuck it in his back pocket anyway. “I’m only doing this because you’ve proved to be pretty handy in a fight. Don’t expect anything after.”  
  
The knife cheered (and wasn’t that creepy) while Stiles stole back into the room where Derek was still rummaging through the cabinets. After a couple of moments he emerged, smile gleaming in victory as he showed Stiles the red hoodie he had lost running from the hunters earlier (or was it yesterday? He wasn’t exactly sure).  
  
“My baby!” Stiles ripped the shirt out of Derek’s grasp and nuzzled his face into it. “I don’t know what I would have done if I’d lost you.” He quickly slipped it over his head, the fabric easily molding to his body. So overjoyed, Stiles beamed at Derek and unthinkingly said, “Dude, I could kiss you right now!”  
  
Stiles immediately froze and he felt his face flare with heat. He had _not_ just said that. Sure, there was something between them, but it was new, tentative, and he didn’t want to ruin it before it had even started. He opened his mouth to say something, anything that would neutralize what he had just said, but Derek just smiled gently at him and pulled him back into the hallway.  
  
“C’mon, the hunters must have realized you’re gone by now. We need to find a way out.”  
  
Stiles relaxed into Derek’s side and willingly let the wolf lead him down the hallway. They were just nearing another large room stacked with crates (Stiles could only guess that they were in some type of warehouse), when Derek suddenly whirled around to face the hallway, pushing Stiles behind him in the process. Looks like the hunters were back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for sexual tension!


	8. Chapter 8

Stiles pulled Derek into the larger room behind them, not wanting to get ambushed in the limited space of the hallway. He quickly drew his knife and glanced at Derek beside him. He was fully transformed, claws and fangs out, and his glowing red eyes were fixed on the doorway the hunters would enter through.

“Derek.” The wolf’s eyes flickered toward him. “Be careful. They still have wolfsbane bullets. One hit and you’re down. I don’t want to have to carry your half-dead ass out of here again, okay?”

Derek spared Stiles a brief smile. “You won’t,” he slurred through his mouth full of teeth. Stiles grinned back as the first of the hunters burst through the doorway. With a roar, Derek launched from his side toward the hunters, knowing Stiles could take care of himself.

Stiles always had to admire the way Derek fought. Sure, he lost most of the time and kind of sucked, but it was mesmerizing in a way Stiles couldn’t exactly explain. It had to do with the way Derek threw his entire being into fighting, his undivided attention centered on his enemy. Derek was usually on guard, half his attention always searching for a new threat, so it was slightly amazing to see him focus so fully on one task. Not to mention the way his muscles flexed appealingly with every jab or lunge the wolf threw. Stiles was man enough to admit that he’d spent more than a few pack training sessions covertly drooling over that muscle.

But, anyway. Yeah, the fight.

Stiles immediately drew to the margin of the fight and flanked the hunters. He began working his way toward Derek, knife slashing and catching on soft flesh. It was easy, surprisingly easy, to spill their blood, but Stiles knew that later he would feel the repercussions from this fight. For now, he spun between the hunters in an intricate dance, taking pleasure in the danger and beauty of his flashing knife. It felt warm in his hand, almost as if it was enjoying this as much as he was. And it probably was, he thought, if he wasn’t crazy and the knife really had talked to him earlier.

When the last hunter was felled by a vicious swipe of Derek’s claws, Stiles and Derek were left panting in an empty room. Stiles looked up to find Derek back to his human form, hazel eyes focused on him.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, drawing closer to Stiles and checking him over for new wounds.

“Derek, please. I can handle a couple of amateur hunters.” Stiles hoped Derek didn’t mention the bruises littering his body that were tangible proof that there was a certain hunter Stiles couldn’t handle.

But Derek just smiled warmly, pressing closer to Stiles for a moment. “I know.”

Stiles eyes widened, but Derek was already walking toward the other doorway in the room. “We’re getting close to an exit. I can smell the fresh air,” he called over his shoulder.

Stiles scrambled to catch up.

_Nice fighting back there, champ._

Thanks, Stiles thought (best not to freak Derek out by talking out loud to his imaginary knife friend). You weren’t bad yourself.

_Well, fighting’s kind of my thing, you know? We make a good team._

Stiles smiled. Yeah, they did.

Derek led them through a couple more rooms before stopping in front of a large steel door. Stiles glanced above the door and snorted.

“I think we could have found this one without your freaky smelling powers,” he grinned, looking to the large neon “Exit” sign above the door.

Derek checked to make sure that the door wasn’t alarmed before he cautiously pushed it open and slid out. Stiles followed behind, sliding his knife into his palm again, just in case. He was greeted with an empty parking lot surrounded by a dense forest. A dirt road at the end of the lot curved off into the forest. Looking behind him, Stiles found he had been right- the building was a large warehouse. In fact, he recognized the name on the side.

“Hammer and Smith Lumberyard. This is right outside of Derry.” He turned toward Derek. “We’re about a four hour drive from home.”

Derek frowned. They were far from Beacon Hills with no way to get home or contact anyone from the pack. Their clothes were splashed with blood from their fight with the hunters, and Stiles bruises were starting to stand out against his face (Stiles could see Derek eyeing them with the guilty look again). They were pretty much screwed.

“Well,” Stiles sighed, “I guess we’ll just have to start walking then.” He started for the protective cover of the trees when suddenly the door they had just exited from swung open with a slam. Derek only had time to yell “Stiles run!” before he was hit in the chest and slammed to the ground. Stiles screamed and lunged to Derek’s side, but froze when a shell whistled by his ear.

“Stop right there, son.”

Stiles’ heart flipped in horror at the voice. He slowly turned to find Cullen standing in the doorway with a shotgun aimed at Stiles’ chest. He had a crazed look on his face and was breathing heavily.

“Drop the knife.” At Stiles’ hesitance, he shot so close to Stiles’ ear that he felt a drop of blood hit his shoulder from the grazed lobe. “Drop the fucking knife or I’ll take your fucking head off!”

Stiles let the knife slip from his hand and kicked it away, feeling the knife call his name fearfully. He was too busy feeling his heart pound a hole through his chest to really take notice, though. He morbidly thought it was trying to make up for all the time it would miss when he died.

Derek was a mess on the ground, blood pooling around his torso and lapping at the bottom of Stiles’ converse. The shell had entered just below his heart, and Stiles knew he didn’t have much time before the poison spread through his whole body. Derek was still trying to move toward Stiles, but it was pointless. They were both at the mercy of Cullen and Stiles had first-hand knowledge that the man didn’t possess a single sympathetic bone in his body.

“You know,” Cullen spat out, “you two have caused me a whole lot of trouble tonight. You killed my whole crew and gave me a real headache. I’m going to have a lot of explaining to do when I get back to headquarters. As you can imagine, I’m not feeling too lenient. I was going to keep you,” he said, gesturing at Stiles with the gun, “because you’re pretty, but with the trouble you’ve caused me, I’m more liable to kill you.” He raised the gun again and prepared to shoot.

Now that his death warrant had been signed, Stiles started to feel less fear in favor of overwhelming remorse. He had failed in so many ways. He’d failed to protect his pack, which would probably be destroyed by a supernatural baddie or a group of hunters once word of their alpha’s death got around and they imploded from within without any guidance. He’d failed to protect his father, who would fall apart once his only living relative, his only _son_ , was found tortured and dead in a lumberyard parking lot.

But worst of all, he’d failed to protect Derek. Derek, who had thrown away his own salvation and come back into a hunter-infested warehouse for Stiles, who had always done his best to shelter his pack members from danger and be the alpha he’d never expected to be, who sometimes laughed so hard at Stiles’ jokes that he would snort and flare an alarming shade of red in embarrassment. Derek didn’t deserve to die in this abandoned parking lot, didn’t deserve to die at all, and Stiles was blinded with the injustice of it all.

Rage, pure rage, surged through his veins as he faced his attacker, not seeing him for the red washing out his vision and blurring out the world in an all-encompassing fury. Cullen had been the one to shoot Derek and Cullen was the one who was going to kill Stiles and prevent Derek the aid he needed. As the hunter cocked the gun and grinned, Stiles let the rage consume him and his world flashed white in a fury focused on Cullen. A crack sounded across the lot and he waited for the pain.

He frowned in confusion when none came. His vision suddenly swam back from the white-hot anger and he blinked up at Cullen. The man’s eyes were round in shock and he tentatively reached a hand down to finger at Stiles’ knife now embedded in his chest. Looking back at Stiles, he managed a strangled gurgle before falling lifelessly to the ground.

Stiles stood still in shock until a small movement from Derek broke him from his trance. He flew to Cullen’s side and yanked the shotgun from his grasp. Opening the chamber, he grabbed a shell before lunging to an already unconscious Derek’s side, opening the shell and removing the wolfsbane. He thanked whoever was watching over them that Derek kept a lighter in his jacket pocket and quickly prepared the wolfsbane and shoved it into the wound.

Stiles stared intently at Derek’s face and willed the man to move.

“Derek?” He shoved the man’s shoulder, but received no response. Stiles' heart clenched painfully.

“Derek? C’mon, wake up,” Stiles' voice broke on the end. He lowered his head to Derek’s chest, but heard nothing. He closed his eyes hard against the tears that were building up pressure behind his eyes.

“Derek, ple-” His breath caught in his throat. “Derek, please.” He pulled back up to look into the other man’s face. Derek’s head rolled limply to the side with the movement and Stiles broke.

“No! No, no, no, no, no.” He clutched uselessly at Derek’s shoulders, sobbing. “Derek, please, n-no, don’t do this, don’t do this to me, y-you can’t-” He broke off as a heaving sob wracked his body. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. You were s-supposed to be, we were supposed to… _Derek_.”

His head fell to Derek’s chest and he lost himself to the pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DEREK!!!! What happened to this fic? I don't even know, man. I still have one more chapter to go, though, and I swear everything will be explained and wrapped up. Don't give up on me yet!


	9. Chapter 9

Stiles’ sobs were overwhelming. He couldn’t feel anything other than the point where his head was pressed into Derek’s chest and the pain the sobs caused in his chest. That’s probably why he didn’t feel the gentle caresses at his side until a soothing voice accompanied them.

“Shh, Stiles. You’re okay, now. You’re fine. Let it all out. Breathe.”

Stiles breath caught in his throat when the chest underneath him moved with the words. His eyes slowly dragged up to meet shining hazel ones.

“Oh God, Derek.” He collapsed on top of the wolf, wrapping his arms around him tightly. He stayed that way for a few seconds before pulling back and barking, “Don’t you _ever_ do that to me _again_ , you hear me? I will bring you back to life and fucking kill you myself! God, you’re so stupid.” With that he threw himself at the wolf again and buried his face into the junction between his shoulder and neck. He was crying again, but found he didn’t care.

“Hey, it’s okay now, Stiles. You saved us, you saved _me._ ” Derek was dragging his hand down Stiles’ back soothingly.

Stiles almost laughed at how their positions from earlier that day had reversed. _He_ was the one who needed comforting now, and the irony wasn’t lost on him. Even so, he wasn’t ready to give up his position tucked neatly into Derek’s side with the wolf wrapped around him.

“I can’t believe you almost died from a frickin’ shotgun shell.” Stiles sniffed into Derek’s shoulder. “I mean, of everything, it’s really a hunter that almost got you? Lame.”

Derek laughed. “Oh, I’m sure it’ll be something even worse next time.”

“Derek, your heart wasn’t beating.”

“That you could hear.”

Stiles sighed. “Can we not talk about how it could have been worse? I just went through a horribly scarring and traumatic experience; humor me and tell me everything is gonna be fine.”

“Everything is going to be fine, Stiles.”

“Liar.”

_Hey! Did you guys forget about me? I don’t particularly enjoy being stuck in this pervert’s intestines._

Stiles reluctantly removed his head from Derek’s throat and side-eyed the knife.

“Derek, did you throw the knife at Cullen?”

Derek glanced over at the hunter in surprise. “No, I was mostly out of it by that point. I thought you threw it.”

_Well of course you did, Stiles. Just not with your hand._

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he angrily questioned.

“Are you talking to your magic knife again?” Derek asked, grinning slyly.

Stiles punched him in the arm playfully, and then dragged both of them to their feet. He didn’t move away and neither did Derek. He doubted either of them would be able to tolerate any sort of distance between them for a while. Also, Stiles’ whole body was aching and the wolf’s warmth was amazing on his sore muscles. They both moved together for Stiles to pluck his knife from Cullen’s stomach (ew) and searched his pockets for a cellphone.

“Shit,” he muttered. “He doesn’t have a phone.”

Derek looked solemn. “Guess we’re walking.” He then cocked his head to the side, listening. A slow smile broke across his face. “Or maybe not.”

Just then a horn blared from the other side of the parking lot. Stile whirled around to see both Allison and Lydia’s cars coming down the dirt road. He could see Scott grinning in the passenger’s seat of Allison’s car, waving madly and mouthing something repeatedly, even though he knew Stiles wouldn’t be able to hear it. Stiles nearly collapsed with relief. You had to give it to Scott- the kid had great timing.

Derek wrapped his arm around him and Stiles smiled.

“Let’s go home, Sourwolf.”

***

Stiles blinked blearily at the light slanting across the bed. He took a moment to just revel in the feeling of waking up without a glaring headache. Settling deeper into his blanket cocoon, he determined he would sleep just a few more hours, but his stomach nixed that idea by beginning to practice its whale mating call. Stiles sighed. So much for sleeping in. He gingerly rose to a sitting position and his arms came above his head as he let out a huge yawn.

He winced as the motion caused his bruises to ache. Stiles trailed his eyes across his chest. The bruises were horribly ugly things and it was hard to tell where one ended and another began, but they meant he was alive and he wasn’t about to complain about that.

They hadn’t looked this bad last night and they had still caused the pack to freak out. Stiles chuckled as he remembered the way Lydia had gasped when she walked in on Deaton examining his wounds and then sworn revenge on the sick bastard who’d had the nerve to touch her friend (Lydia was nothing if not possessive of those she loved). She’d been so disappointed to find out that Cullen was already dead, though she was grudgingly impressed that Stiles had done it himself.

He frowned. That part was still weird to him. When Stiles and Derek had been telling the pack what had happened (Stiles tried to gloss over the parts where he was hurt, but he’s pretty sure no one bought it), Deaton had become very interested in Stiles’ mentions of the knife.

“You say it talks to you,” Deaton had said while examining the knife with a critical eye.

Stiles shrugged. “Well, yeah. Though it gives crappy advice, let me tell ya.”

_It was great advice and you know it._

Deaton had ignored him and chuckled lightly instead. “Well Mr. Stilinski, it seems that you have happened upon a very rare and very old artifact. Enchanted items such as this one were created long ago for the use of mages and such against those who would challenge them. The artifacts choose an owner they deem worthy and only respond to their voice. The connection between owner and magic item is sacred, and both feel a sense of loyalty to the other. The artifacts will do anything to protect and please their owners, sometimes even transcending their original purposes as a weapon. They can even begin to take on some of their owner’s traits. As the years have gone by, many of these items have faded from existence. If an item does not find a worthy owner, the item becomes just what it was originally intended for.” Deaton smiled warmly at Stiles. “It seemed that your knife felt your mind and sprang back to life.”

Stiles grinned at the knife. “You thought I was worthy, huh?”

_Yes, and don’t make me regret it._

Stiles laughed, but then caught something Deaton had said earlier. “Wait, you said that they will do anything to protect and please their owners, right? Is that why it hit Cullen?”

Deaton seemed pleased and simply said, “Yes.” At Stiles exasperated glare he continued. “Facing Cullen, you were feeling overwhelming emotions, yes? The knife responded to these feelings and, using the strength and depth of your emotions, moved to do your bidding.”

Stiles had turned to Scott, grinning maniacally. “Dude, I have telekinesis.”

Back in his bedroom, Stiles laughed, remembering how Scott had immediately started rattling off the pranks they had to pull on Jackson. Standing up, he quickly got dressed while avoiding looking in the mirror. He grabbed his knife and tucked it into his boot.

“You’re pretty much coming everywhere with me now, buddy.”

_Is that supposed to be something I’m looking forward to? Because I’m not too thrilled at the prospect of the boy’s locker room, to be real honest. I’m dealing with enough teenage boy angst with you as it is._

Stiles huffed, amused. Yeah, it was definitely already taking on parts of his personality.

His stomach growled again, and he jogged down the stairs and into the kitchen to make a sandwich. His dad was already at the table, his nose in the newspaper.

“Morning, Pops,” Stiles said, gripping his shoulder fondly. Last night his dad had pulled him into a hug that had lasted for at least five minutes. Stiles hadn’t minded; he’d needed the reassurance just as much as his father.

His father looked up from the paper and smiled. “Hey, son. Feeling better with some sleep?”

“Loads. If I could, I’d probably never leave my bed again.”

The older man chuckled. “Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better.” He returned to his newspaper and Stiles started pulling out sandwich ingredients. “By the way, Derek is here.”

Stiles floundered and dropped the butter knife he was holding, sending it clattering to the floor. “Oh?” he played at indifference as he carefully wiped up the mayonnaise from the floor. His father snorted and he knew that he wasn’t fooling anyone.

“He’s been waiting for you to wake up. I sent him to the backyard when his pacing started grating on my nerves.”

“Oh… okay.” Stiles wasn’t really sure what he was supposed to do now.

“Son,” the sheriff sighed. “That boy has been waiting here for hours. You better go to him.”

Stiles smiled at his dad in gratitude and left the kitchen, half-made sandwich forgotten. He wandered out to the backyard and found Derek sitting on the edge of the porch, sun playing across his features appealingly. From the way Derek was trying to hide a smirk, he could tell the wolf had heard his awkward flailing in the kitchen.

“Hey Creeperwolf, listening in on my conversations?”

Derek’s ears reddened, but he smiled into his sleeve.

Stiles relaxed. Last night Derek hadn’t strayed from Stiles’ side for a second, not even when Deaton was examining him, but he hadn’t exactly known how the wolf would react in the light of day. Seeing Derek smile, however, soothed his nerves. Stiles eased down beside the wolf, letting their knees knock together.

“So,” he began, “we almost died yesterday.”

Derek snorted. “Eloquent.”

“Yeah, well, that’s me. Not much one for beating around the bush.” He wrung his hands together. “So, how are you? Feeling, that is.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re the one we should be worrying about,” Derek said, eyes flickering over to a bruise smeared across Stiles’ cheekbone before refocusing on the yard.

“Well, you’re the one who fucking died, Derek.” He couldn’t help the bitter undertone his voice took on. He could still feel the ghost of that overwhelming sorrow lingering in his chest.

Derek’s head dropped, the playful mood from a second ago forgotten. “You never should have had to deal with this, Stiles. Any of it. I should have tried harder at the beginning to leave you out of this, given you a normal life. And for that I’m sorry.” He raised his head and turned to look directly at Stiles for the first time. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it Derek.” Derek looked taken aback and Stiles tiredly continued, “I have been in this since the beginning, but that’s been my choice. I led Scott out to the woods that night. I chose to fight against Peter and Gerard and the kanima and everything after that. I helped build this pack and would do anything for any one of them. You don’t get to negate any of that just because you’re feeling guilty about something you couldn’t control. It’s all been my choices and I wouldn’t take a single one back.” He slid his fingers across Derek’s palm, taking the older man’s hand into his. “We’re in this together, Derek. You’d do good to remember that.”

Derek looked awestruck for a moment, his eyes wide and full of wonder. Gently, his mouth turned up into a small smile and he squeezed Stiles’ hand in his. Stiles smiled too, before darting in to quickly plant a light kiss on the corner of Derek’s mouth. When he pulled back, Derek’s incredulous expression slowly morphed into a soft smile Stiles had never seen before. His large hand came up to gently cup Stiles’ cheek and he returned the kiss, his lingering a little longer but just as chaste. They both grinned stupidly at each other before Stiles let a small laugh and rested his head on Derek’s shoulder.

They sat together for a while, content to watch the lazy morning sunlight filter through the trees of the Stilinski backyard. Stiles yawned, exhaustion taking over again, and he began to nod off to the rise and fall of Derek’s chest. Derek just wrapped his arm around Stiles and pulled him closer into his side. Stiles drifted asleep to the comforting beat of Derek’s heart, feeling safer than he had in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's done! Thank you guys so much for sticking with me to the end! You're the best, really.


End file.
